Its Funny
by imaginary-boy-friends
Summary: The Bad Touch Trio thinking about those they love (Pruhun/Aushun, Spamano, Freanne )
1. Prussia

It's a funny thing. Having a crush. Gil didn't even like her for a long time. As friends maybe, but nothing more. Sure her face had gotten prettier, the round cheeks slimming down to reveal a kind smile and bright green eyes that had never really stood out before. He hadn't even really liked her then either. This little train of thoughts were happening slowly, sure, but they didn't really go anywhere until Vlad brought it up. Vlad didn't even really like her either. Or maybe her did, Gil wasn't able to tell these days.

Gil hadn't even thought about it in the beginning. When it was just her and him and a dim sky filled with fading stars. When they would spend nights alone just talking and laughing until they both fell asleep. Even then he didn't waste a thought to how clear and warm her laugh was. Or how he didn't even know that she was a she. He probably should have been able to tell, but then again maybe it wasn't just these days.

Vlad had asked it as a joke, a joke that bounced off and was met by a sharp retort and a quick laugh. Not that laugh, just one he usually made. Ragged and shallow. Not rich and deep. No, he hadn't heard that in a long time.

Gil was always alone. Not really at the beginning though, in the beginning she was there and her would always turn to her. But this time she was a girl, a girl who was now far out of his reach. Now he was really alone.

It was probably her not being there. Gil hadn't seen her since back when he laughed. When he would make jokes about how she grew her hair out or the impracticality of her clothes. She would correct him and talk about what ladies do and he would tell her she sounded like Roderich.

She would tell him about Roderich. The way his eyes sparkled as he talked about music, the amount of money he spent on her, how he never make any jokes about her dresses rather he tell her they looked beautiful. He'd smile and blush at the same time when they talked despite how placid he usually looked. How the small emotions that he displayed made her heart beat faster than a greyhound running.

For a while Gil thought he was enthralled by this Roderich. But the more he thought about it lately he was just mesmerized by how happy she sounded when she said his name. He spend hours late at night alone going through her say his name but it never sounded like that.

At the same time it wasn't about him, it was her and Roderich. The only problem was it was this happiness, this version of her, he fell in love with. Maybe it wasn't love, maybe Gil was just over analyzing a bunch of feelings that despite hundreds of years, never made any sense. The bright green eyes that he used to turn to were off limits. So in the end, his one-sided love only existed because she would never love him the way he craved her. The way he wanted to say things that weren't masked with false arrogance or faked amusement. The way he wanted to hold her all night long and gaze up into the skies the dark blue of his country. He couldn't imagine kissing her. He didn't want to. Part of him might have, that part of him might have also wanted to feel every inch of her new body, not the one he used to have mapped out as well as his own. For the most part, Gil wanted Elizaveta to say his name, his real name, and sound as happy as she did with Roderich's.

She'd screamed his named, yelled his name, whispered it. Laughed it. She never said it in a way that made the clouds part and the sun rise, a way that didn't even make you realize how dark it was before.

Gil smiled at that thought, before rolling onto his side, deciding to try something for the first time.

"Elizaveta."


	2. France

Francis held the blue flowers tights in his hand, wrinkling the plastic that wrapped around them. Every time he blinked the white cross would get fuzzier as his vision blurred with tears.

Francis thought about her often, about how her eyes were always swirling clouds of mixed emotions, of wonder and fear, a combination of gray and blue he could lose himself in for ages. How her innocent face transformed with the rage of battle, the only woman in legions of men, fighting with the weight of his life off her shoulders. He remembered how she would talk about winning a battle, how she would be prepared to face the world for a hundred years because god willed her so. She controlled everything about herself, yet she was still his. His in a sense she protected him at all cost, and his in a way he wished all time she had said for once that god wasn't the only person she protected him for.

He would always call her _sa Belle, _and she would laugh at it like it was a joke. He thought about the way her voice reverberated with the vowels of a rural village, the soft sounds setting her apart from the aristocrats Francis spent his time with. Her face would shine with interest whenever she'd see a lord or lady walk by, their clothes adorned with rich fabrics or laden in jewels. He would promise himself that one day when it was all over that he would get her to wear one instead of the loose, rusted armour and cold chain mail. She would sass him constantly, forgetting her place as a soldier, relaxing around him to the point she might accidentally swear, setting off alarm in the nobles around her. She'd reminded him of Gil that way.

He'd had mixed feelings when the war was over. He was happy that she wouldn't need to worry about him anymore, that she could go back to the life she'd lived before, away from the judging eye of the high court. He'd wanted her to stay with him, by his side as a reminder of what living life was, what earning each day meant, rather than having it come to you served on a gold platter.

In the end she was sent home by the court, her time as a soldier over, her cased dismissed, and that was the last he ever saw of her.

Humans were funny things to him. The way fear warped them, twisting them to do mad things. Horrid things. Things that composed of some primal instinct that says kill or be killed. A worried mind set off by the smallest of possibilities.

Except it wasn't her they should have been worried about.

Death was a foreign concept, but he would do it for her. She was also the reason he would never do it. He would give the world to spend a day with her again, her beautiful face and her golden hair, the way she smelled the roses whenever she walked past a garden because she knew, despite all her faith that each day might be her last. Francis had never had that feeling, because he knew in his darkest hour, she would protect him.

He would have watched her grow old and wrinkles appear around her eyes and her mouth because he would make her smile so much. He would call her beautiful until she finally accepted it. He would never abandon sa belle, not while they still had so many words left unspoken. Not when he couldn't grab her hand, look her in the eyes, swirling masses of blue and gray and say,

"Jeanne, je t'aime"


End file.
